under Master Yoda's tutelage. As they grew more accustomed to each
other's rhythms, they progressed into a flowing web of spontaneous
engagement. Slowly, minute by minute, they increased pace, stuttered
the rhythm, increasing the acuteness of attack angles and beginning
to utilize feints and distractions, binds, rapid changes in
level, and to introduce random environmental elements into the interaction:
furniture, walls, slippery floors. To an observer it would
have seemed that the two were trying to slaughter each other, but the
two knew that they were engaged in the most profound and enjoyable
aspect of Jedi play, lightsaber flow.
At a crucial instant Kit hissed, more to himself than Obi-Wan,
then stepped back, disengaged, and switched his lightsaber off.
Obi-Wan switched his off as well. "What is it, my friend?" he
asked.
"The bio-droid," Kit said, anger heating his voice. "I should have
performed better."
"You were brilliant. What more could you have done?"
Kit sat heavily, his smooth green forearms resting on his knees,
sensor tendrils curling and questing like a nest of angry sand vipers.
"I should have gone closer to the edge," he said, the irises within the
unblinking eyes expanding until they appeared to glow. "Released
myself into the Force, become more unpredictable. More . . . random."
Obi-Wan heard the concern in the Nautolan's voice. Form I was
wild, raw... and deadly. It also required too much emotional heat for
Obi-Wan's taste. "That would have been dangerous," he said, choosing
his words carefully. "Not to your body, perhaps, but to your
spirit."
Kit looked up at him, irises contracting again. "It is the way of
Form One."
And here Obi-Wan knew he needed to tread softly. Combat style
was an exceedingly personal choice. "Agreed," Obi-Wan replied, "but
Form One represents greater risk to you as well, my friend."
Kit said nothing for a time, and then slowly, almost imperceptibly,
nodded. "We all take risks."
That simple truth momentarily silenced Obi-Wan. There it was:
Kit knew that Form I placed him in greater jeopardy, but his sense of
duty made it worthwhile. In that moment Obi-Wan's respect for the
Nautolan rose to the highest levels.
For now, the best thing that he could do was help get Kit's mind
off the subject. He stood, briskly slapping his palms together. "But
come!" he said. "If our ruse is to succeed we must practice a while
longer. Then I need to get back to work on the lightwhip."
That seemed to lift Kit's spirits. "When will it be ready to test?"
Obi-Wan sighed. "I've never actually built one, but saw a bounty
hunter wield one once, in the Koornacht Cluster. The theory is clear
enough, and I found a diagram in the archives. Just remember: if
covert action becomes necessary, all suspicion must fall on Count
Dooku. If you are seen wielding a lightsaber, you'll be identified as a
Jedi."
"Less conversation." Kit grinned. "More practice."
They returned to their dance, each sensitive to his differences but
comfortable in them as well. On and on they went, until exertion
drove all thought from their conscious minds, until all discussions
were forgotten, and all that remained was a pure joy of moving, separately
and together, in the way of the Force.
12
C,oncluding his practice session, Obi-Wan freshened himself and
donned a new robe. He then went out to the lower deck lounge.
There, in a more comfortable environment than the formal dining
room just fore of them, he found Barrister Snoil studying at two
computer workstations, each of his eyestalks engaged with a different
holographic display.
"A useful skill," Obi-Wan said, just behind the barrister's right ear.
"You comprehend both simultaneously?"
Snoil turned, startled. "Master Kenobi! I didn't realize you were
there. As to your question . . . yes, my people can split attention between
sides of their brain," he said. "The full reintegration will not
take place until sleep tonight." Genuine concern creased Snoil's glistening
face. "Actually, I am glad you are here. I was hoping we might
confer."
"On what matter?"
"These treaties!" His falsetto rose to a squeak. "A nightmare! Ord
Cestus was never supposed to be a major industrial power. When it
was initially set up, Coruscant granted it quite favorable trade terms.
The point was for the prison to be self-sufficient, and not a burden to
the Republic."
"And now?"
"And now the prison exists as a legal fiction only, a definition expanded
to include the entire planet. Cestus markets goods under a
corrections license."
Snoil paused, eye stalks wavering almost hypnotically. He canted
his head slightly to the side, as if considering a new thought. When
he spoke next, his voice sparked with renewed enthusiasm. "Delicate.
Delicate. If we threaten a suspension of activity while their status is
reevaluated, that should panic them."
"Right into Dooku's arms," Obi-Wan said, and shook his head.
"Hardly a desirable outcome."
"True," the Vippit replied, then lowered his voice. "I was actually
more concerned about another subject."
"That being?"
"Well... it is my Time," he said, emphasizing the last word.
"For children?"
Snoil nodded emphatically. "Oh yes. Master Obi-Wan, I am so
happy you called me. For years I've owed you a great debt."
Obi-Wan laughed. "We're friends. You owe me nothing."
"You saved my life," he said fervently, and his twin eyestalks bobbled.
"I was under contract on Rijel-Twelve when the clans revolted.
If you hadn't evacuated Republic staff, my empty shell would lie there
still."
Well, yes, Obi-Wan had handled a bad bit of business there,
b u t . . .
Snoil would not be denied. "Until I repay the favor, I cannot marry."
Obi-Wan couldn't wait to hear the explanation. The galaxy's wonders
never ceased to amuse and amaze him. "No? Why not?"
Genuine anguish filled Snoil's voice. "Because you can call upon
me for a service whenever you wish. No well-born female would
bond with me until I have cleared this debt, because I cannot negotiate
wholly with her."
"This is your people's way?"
Snoil nodded.
Obi-Wan laughed heartily. "Well, my friend, my confidence in our
mission just soared. It seems you have more reason to see this job
through than I."
13
0ver the three hundred years since initial entry into the Republic,
Cestus s native population had decreased by 90 percent, while the
immigrant population had increased to several million. Their needs
were so different from those of the original inhabitants that, without
interstellar commerce, that population would starve or be forced into
migration and poverty.
Hundreds of years earlier, Cestus had been a world of amber sands
and coppery-brown hills, mostly rock with a few blue pools of surfac
e
water and the scaled ridges of continental mountain ranges. Its poor
soil was home to a thousand varieties of hardy plants whose root
acids constantly struggled to break down rock into absorbable nutrients.
Most notable among its vegetation were some eight hundred
varieties of edible and medicinal mushrooms, none of which had ever
been exported.
However poor it might once have been, with the rigorous filtering
of Cestus's water and addition of various nutrients, the planets soil
offered up two dozen vegetables suitable for consumption. After fifteen
generations of cultivation, significant patches of green now
stretched across the brown expanse, some few of them visible even
from space.
From high orbit, it would have been difficult to see the industrial
areas that produced the Baktoid armor or dreaded bio-droids, or see
any reason at all to think that this secluded planet might become a
crucial balance point in a drama playing out across the galaxy. However
difficult to believe, it was a sobering truth.
Their transport cruiser made its initial descent to a section of the
Dashta plain selected for the tiny amount of electromagnetic activity
in the area: evidence that there was little or no entrenched population.
The offworlders wished to avoid prying eyes. Ahead lay work
best done in privacy.
For an hour the troopers humped crates and rucksacks full of gear
out of the ship. Kit insisted on carrying his own equipment, and the
troopers were happy to let him do it: the Jedi was as strong as any two
of them. For half the trip Obi-Wan had labored on the weapon now
coiled at Kit's side. Kit had a reputation for improvisation, and
within hours he handled the lightwhip as if he had been spawned
with it.
Obi-Wan turned to Kit and extended his hand. "Well," he said,
"this is where we part."
"For now," Kit said. "We'll set up base camp in the caves south of
here, and should be ready for operations in a day. After that, we'll be
ready for whatever comes."
"I'm sure you will," Obi-Wan said. "Communication on astromech
remote maintenance channels shouldn't alert their security. We'll disguise
our conversation as modulations of the basic carrier frequency."
Kit nodded, but the smile on his lips didn't reach his eyes. "A good
idea. May the Force be with you."
There was little left to do save play out their hand as dealt. Obi-
Wan stood, looking out at the horizon, at the dust devils spinning
and churning. Beyond those, a rust-colored cloud crept across the
ground, peaceful and lovely at this distance, one of the sandstorms
that made surface living on Cestus such a hazard. Obi-Wan understood
perfectly why Cestus had been chosen as a prison.
The four remaining clone troopers stayed behind with Kit. Obi-
Wan walked back up into the ship, and the door sealed behind him.
He strapped himself into the empty chair next to CT-X270,
checked to make sure Doolb Snoil was safe, and then nodded. "Let's
go, Xutoo," he said.
Kit checked the instrumentation on his Aratech 74-Z speeder
bike, modified military hardware as maneuverable as a hawk-bat and
capable of speeds up to 550 kilometers per hour. Riding one reminded
the Nautolan of storm-swimming, one of his favorite sports.
The four directional steering vanes were well adjusted and responsive
to a touch. The repulsorlift engines purred like demicots and had
no problem handling the heavy cargo bags strapped to the sides. All
fuel cells were full, all diagnostics live. Good. He raised his hand, and
the clone troopers mounted their own speeders as if they had practiced
that single maneuver for a month. He breathed deeply. Fire
burned his veins as his twin hearts went slightly out of rhythm with
each other, preparing him for action. This was the moment that he
lived for, the calm before the storm. Like swimming the surface during
one of Glee Anselm's mammoth hurricanes, or the practice of
Form I, it was the storm itself that was the test, the challenge to see
if he could maintain his balance in the whirlwind. Never had he
fallen. One day he would, as all mortals did. But not today, he grinned
fiercely. Not today.
He triggered the speeder. The purr became a growl as it lifted.
In perfect formation the five sailed through the gullies and along
rivers through a tumble of low brown scrub brush.
Although most nearby objects whipped past in a blur, those more
distant remained clear. Kit drank in the scenery, noting the far-off
line of a caravan out along the scrub rock. The speeder bikes traveled
too low to be seen, low enough for the speeders behind him to be
swallowed in the storm of dust particles, baffling scanners.
At one moment they passed a small knot of nomadic X'Ting, the
insectile people who had once dominated the planet. While still
holding some political power, they now numbered but a few tens of
thousands. The nomads raised their crimson arms and pointed at the
line of speeder bikes as they raced past.
Again, nothing to really worry about. He convinced himself that
this wasn't an omen. Encountering the Cestians in the midst of such
a desolate area was just happenstance. Nomadic native Cestians
tended to be nontechnological, used no devices that emitted radiation
anywhere in the electromagnetic spectrum. Nothing to worry
about...
Cestus called to Kit. In this landscape he sensed the struggle of life
against an unsparing nature. It reminded him of his homeworld's
surface territory, a land of great harshness, but one that bred a people
of tremendous courage. Except for a lack of vast and roiling oceans,
he might have been born here.
On the next speeder bike behind him, Nate traversed the same
landscape, occupied by his own thoughts. The ARC captain scanned
everything, searching for ambush spots, possible strongholds, lines of
sight... everything he saw, everything he thought was connected to
his duty. There was room in his mind for nothing else. Nor was anything
else needed.
Kilometer by kilometer, they progressed toward their goal, the
Dashta Mountains far to the west.
14
A,fter assuming a trajectory plausible for a ship approaching from
Coruscant, CT-X270, "Xutoo," re-entered Cestus's atmosphere. The
cruiser's communications array fired, automated docking signal receivers
decoding instructions for landing.
They headed straight for Cestus's capital city, ChikatLik, an
X'Ting word meaning "the center." Xutoo handled the controls with
supreme confidence, as if he had been born piloting ships.
Then again, for all practical purposes, he had.
They descended through the umber heart of a swirling kilometerswide
dust cloud that obscured most of the surface beneath them. The
guidance computer projected wire-frame animations of their target,
and revealed more of the surface detail than Obi-Wan's naked
eyes. One of Cestus's primary features was the vast network of tunnels,
cr
eated by volcanic activity, water erosion, and millennia of
digging by the once vast X'Ting hives. It was these caves that had
made it such a perfect choice for a prison planet, and it was into one
of the larger lava tubes that their ship descended.
As they entered its mouth, the air cleared, and for the first time
during their descent visual cues revealed valuable information. After
a few seconds the sides became pleasantly painted and sculpted.
Obi-Wan caught a few briefly snatched glimpses of graffiti, and then
networks of pipe and steel, mazes of rigging clearly the product of
endless generations of workers.
He noticed also that the laborers seemed to have done everything
in their power to keep a sense of the original beauty, and he admired
that. As much as the works of mortals could be, and often were, quite
beautiful, there was always something about the natural world that
touched Obi-Wan even more deeply, as if a testament to the truth
and depth of the Force that conscious efforts could never approach.
They zoomed down another tunnel and turned left. Artificial light
reflected around the corner. For a moment he was blinded.
ChikatLik's offices and apartments blended with the volcanic
structures so perfectly that it was difficult to see where they ended
and mortal workings began. He saw a thousand elevated roads and
pedestrian paths, but little aerial travel. Many of the curved, apparently
stone paths streamed with slidewalks, a local transport system
that seemed to have grown organically over the years until the entire
city bustled like a close-up, impossibly intimate view of a living body's
interior.
Their ship spiraled down through the towers and roadways, heading
to a central landing pad at the outskirts of their destination, some
kind of major living complex. Where volcanic rock was obscured the
walls had the texture of rough gray or black duracrete, perhaps some
compound produced by the digestive systems of hive builders.
As the ship came softly to rest, one of the side screens showed a
line of uniformed human males standing at attention. Obi-Wan
knew that Xutoo had already killed the main engines so that no stray
heat or radiation would spoil the approach.
Doolb Snoil's emerald eyestalks quivered with excitement. "Look
at the honor guard!"
"Yes," Obi-Wan replied. "It must be rare to see representatives
from Coruscant out here on the Rim. I fear that this has more than
The Cestus Deception Page 8
